


The Dreams We Left at the Outskirts

by doublelead



Category: Atelier Escha and Logy: Alchemists of the Dusk Sky
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 00:29:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14738684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublelead/pseuds/doublelead
Summary: “I guess, in a way, it means that you don’t need to be a star to matter.” Escha grows quiet, her voice muffled, like she never meant for him to hear. “That’s actually kind of relieving. Everyone deserves to feel important.”





	The Dreams We Left at the Outskirts

**Author's Note:**

> written as a free paper for a local doujinshi event earlier this year! For how long I've been here I'm actually disappointed that this is my first LogyEsu fic laughs I need to work on that, clearly.

“I knew I’d find you here.” Awin’s voice comes from somewhere behind him, the light from his lantern filling the dark room with a warm glow.

Logy peeks over his shoulder, chin brushing against the blanket draped over his shoulders, to look at him leaning against the door frame with a smile on his face. He turns back towards the high window, a drizzle of starlight down his cheeks, on to his knees, the cauldron he’s leaning back against.

“Miss Marion said you might as well live here, for all she knows,” Awin chuckles, and then, almost like an afterthought, “Not that she’s any better.”

“It feels more like home,” is the only thing Logy offers as explanation.

He feels – with soft footsteps crossing the room, tapping against the floor under his shoes – fleeting, at the very tips, fingers ruffling through his hair. Awin’s smile is bright when he crouches down, his palm open in invitation. “Just thought you might want to actually see the stars this time.”

Logy’s blanket flutters down onto the floor as he takes Awin’s hand. Peering over his head, he thinks he might have seen a flicker of a shooting star.

 

* * *

 

“Look, Logy!” Escha says, leaning her weight out the side of the balloon basket. The star-patterened blanket fastened around her shoulders flutter against the sky, shooting stars brushing past the edge of woven rattan, falling down her arm. Her breath puffs white around a sunshine smile, behind loose strands of her pink hair, out of their usual pigtails and muted by the night.

At the end of her fingertip, pointing out towards the distance, is the Unexplored Ruins, reflecting off the sunrise from a place where tomorrow already starts.

“You can still see it even in the dark,” she whispers. Logy sees the way her eyes softens as she sinks down, resting her cheeks on her arms crossed over the side of the basket. “I’ve heard people used to use it for celestial navigation, even though it technically isn’t a star.”

“‘ _Constant as the northern star,_ _’_ huh?” Logy muses, a prose he remembers off-hand, a book left open on their work table back in the atelier.

“I guess, in a way, it means that you don’t need to be a star to matter.” Escha grows quiet, her voice muffled, like she never meant for him to hear. “That’s actually kind of relieving. Everyone deserves to feel important.”

“You’re important,” he hears himself say, dazed thoughts spilled into the air.

“Oh― _Oh!_ I wasn’t― _It’s not―_ ” Escha fumbles through her words, defensively waving her hands around.

“You’re important,” Logy says again, firmer, this time. _You’re importan_ _t._ Not, ‘ _You’re important to me’,_ or, ‘ _You’re important to the people around you’,_ but just the simple thought that she’s _here._ He smiles, soft, sincere, a hope that the warmth he has received throughout their time together returns to her tenfold. “You’re going to be the one chasing that star, right?”

A few thousand metres above the pier, an altitude just between the sky and where the docks start to fade from view – even now, Escha sets her sights higher. She’s always trying to reach out, until the furthest corner where the light ends.

Logy sees her try to wipe away the red that starts to dust her cheeks. She fiddles with the hem of her blanket for a moment before looking up, unwavering, holding his gaze.

“Yeah,” she says, crinkles in her eyes, a smile showered in daybreak’s pink.

If Logy sees himself a celestial cartographer, charting the stars from where he floats above still lakes, the night sky reflecting off the surface caught under the soles of his shoes, then Escha is his constant – visible light, a point in the distance.

 

***


End file.
